How to Save a Life
by CreativeDreamer98
Summary: Holmes and Watson have finished their last case together and Watson is soon to be married. But what happens when something happens to Mary? Will Watson be able to pick up and carry on? What happens when the detective and doctor reunite? WatsonxOCHolmesXOC
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's note: To those who read my Harry Potter story – no I have not stopped writing. Yes I will update soon. This just hit me with sudden inspiration, and I couldn't let it float away. I promise more chapters will be coming soon and full of funness! Also, I know this chapter is like really depressing and not much action happens, but it's really the set up for what comes next!

How to Save a Life

Chapter One

John Watson sighed as he set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, looking over the journal in front of him on his desk. The ink was fresh and drying on the paper, staring up at him almost as a taunt. It had been weeks since he had moved out of Baker Street and into his own home with his new wife, Mary, and at least a week since he had seen his dear friend last. The name of his ex-housemate seemed to jump out at him from the pages, as if screaming for his attention. He had finished writing the last of his great adventures with the unforgettable detective and it left him with a hollow sort of empty feeling along with another he attempted to repress. A sort of yearning for the macabre and thrill, for the chase and intellectual stimulation. A yearning for his old occupation as an assistant to the detective he had come to call his best friend. Yes, he missed running around on those adventures that he swore he couldn't understand why he went on. He knew. Oh he knew. But to admit to why he loved it, was to accept a part of himself that was incompatible with the lifestyle he had chosen. A love of the chase and the thrill, a love of being wild and fighting crime. A love that did not go well with a wife and a house and probably children soon enough. With a sigh John shut the journal firmly. This was the lifestyle he chose. He chose Mary. He chose his love. That was the key difference that separated him from Sherlock Holmes – he accepted and welcomed his emotions and feelings, where as Sherlock did not. Watson nodded to himself. This was right. This was to be the end of his adventuring and from now on he would be a normal man, a normal doctor, with a normal wife and house…..and an extremely abnormal friend. He chuckled. "Abnormal." That wasn't quite the word for Sherlock Holmes. More like extraordinary. Insane at times, even dangerous, but still, he was an extraordinary man.

"John?" Mary's sweet voice called from downstairs.

"Coming love." he called back, setting the journal in the top drawer of his desk and pushing it shut. That was that. Time to go back to reality. After a long moment of staring at the shut drawer he got up and headed for the stairs. He reached the downstairs hallway to be greeted by the scent of fresh brewed tea and he smiled to himself. Mary turned to him from the kitchen counter when he entered the room and smiled.

"Tea?" she offered, holding out a cup. He took it gratefully.

"Thank you my dear." he replied, kissing her cheek. She smiled and turned for a cup of her own. John wasn't sure what happened next exactly, or in what order, but there was the sound of shattering china and a strangled sort of gasp, and then the sound of Mary collapsing to the floor. The sound of his own cup shattering on the floor followed as he dropped to her side, lifting her in his arms.

"Mary? Mary!" he gasped, shaking her gently. She was out cold, her face pale but her cheeks flushed and her skin beginning to shimmer with a thin layer of sweat. Panic boiled inside his chest. She was sick, that much he was aware of, what frightened him was that he had not noticed it before. He checked quickly to make sure she was breathing, which she was, but her breath was clipped as if she was having trouble. Gently he scooped her up in his arms and cradled her close as he carried her upstairs to their bedroom. He laid her down on the bed and quickly got his medical kit to examine her. He began to tally the symptoms, trouble breathing, fever, fainting…what else might she have that he was unaware of? He thought back over the past 24 hours. She had seemed fine…she ate breakfast…but not as much, now that he thought about it. Loss of appetite? That made things worse. He could only pray that no other symptoms appeared. Mary was sleeping quietly now, and he hoped that she would stay that way.

Watson's hopes, however, were in vain. Over the next twenty four hours he watched as the health of his beloved began to diminish at an alarming rate. By the next night he had taken her to the hospital and his worst fears were recognized. Tuberculosis. Its symptoms could hide until the last minute, when there was little hope of survival, and that was just what this had done. He couldn't give up though. He couldn't just sit by and let her die. He had to fight, he had to try to cure her, he had to try to will her to live. He practically took charge of her care, ordering the hospital doctors and nurses around and becoming such a problem that the hospital called the only person that had hope of calming or comforting the poor doctor.

Mary was asleep when Sherlock walked into her hospital bedroom, looking much frailer and thinner than the last time he saw her. Her skin looked stretched across her bones and dark bags formed under her eyes to show her exhaustion. Beside her bed sat John, holding her hand in both of his, watching her every breath rise and fall painfully in her chest. He cleared his throat, pausing for a moment to try to decide just what to say.

"I'm sorry old boy." were finally the words that escaped Holmes's lips. Watson didn't stir. Holmes knew, however, that John had heard him. The slight shift of his shoulder, the infinitesimal tilt of his head, all the small observations that showed someone was listening.

"The hospital called and told me what happened. How is she?" Holmes pressed on, hoping to get his friend to speak. He could better assess the situation then. How Watson was handling it, how ill Mary really was, how bad the situation really had become. John still did not turn around. For a moment there was silence and then a heavy sigh lifted Watson's shoulders and dropped them again with equal force, as if a little bit of life and drifted right out of him.

"She's dying." he whispered so softly that Holmes wasn't sure he had really heard him at first. He recognized the emotion in Watson's voice however. The sound of pure grieve and sorrow. The sound of someone who had fought so hard and finally had to give up in vain. The sound of loss. The sound of pain. It seemed the detective was too late this time. There was no assistance he could give here. Only support a grieving friend. He slowly walked over and gently placed a hand on Watson's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry." he said softly. Finally John turned to look up at him, his expression hollowed and his eyes full on immeasurable pain. The sight of such a look in his friend's eyes nearly made Sherlock look away, but he would not dare to do so. Some may claim that he was not an emotional man, but there was still a bond between himself and Watson which was more than just two men that shared a house, and there was a concern for him and his happiness that was beyond the selfish desire to have someone near him. He understood emotion; he only chose not to share in it. But this, there was no way to share in this. This pain, this sorrow, this grief, this loss, this was John's and there was nothing Sherlock could do, wish though he might, to take it away or even lessen the load by sharing.

"How?" John whispered softly, "how could this be? I'm a doctor…I should have seen…I should have known. All the lives I've saved and all the people I've taken care of…it means nothing…it's pointless. Why should I have helped them if I couldn't help her? I've failed. How could I not save her? How could I not help?" The deep self loathing was clear in Watson's pained voice. Holmes hated that tone. That belief that it was his fault. But of course, he should have known that Watson would take it this way, that he would believe that.

"It's not your fault Watson. I hear it's difficult to catch in time. The symptoms sometimes don't show till it's too late." he tries to soothe him. But Watson's pain did not ease. The torment did not leave his expression. He only shook his head.

"No…I should have known. I should be able to stop this…even now…" Watson pressed.

"Now you can help her be comfortable for as long as you can." Holmes cuts in. It was cruel, but true. Perhaps if Watson could come to terms with what was to come, he could better treasure his remaining time with Mary. Suddenly all his dislike of the woman seemed to fade. Seeing her so weak and helpless, she no longer seemed like the large obstacle that stood like a wall between him and his best friend. She was a frail, dying woman, and he could not help but feel sorry for her. Perhaps if things had gone differently, they would have been better friends. He would have been invited for dinner at their house, and they would have joined him at the opera. Perhaps they would have all gone to Mycroft's to enjoy the countryside one summer, or perhaps even for Christmas. Perhaps John would have stuck around longer, and joined in on the occasional case. Perhaps even they would have had children, and Sherlock would have been their crazy but endearing uncle. The reality of the life they all could have had flashed in front of Sherlock's mental eye, and then disappeared just as quickly. Sentimentality was not his forte. And although emotion might glimmer on occasion behind his dark stony eyes, it quickly flitted away again to a place he was unaware existed inside himself, for he had denied it since childhood. Sherlock was sure the same images had fluttered through Watson's head a million times, perhaps were even cycling right now as he looked down at his dying wife. Silence fell on the three as Holmes quietly pulled up a chair beside Watson. There was little he could do now, except wait, and offer his support when the time came.

And come the time did. Despite John's pleading, despite his comforting words of support telling her she would be fine, telling her to push through, despite all of John's feeble hoping, the moment finally came when Mary's hand grew limp in his and her breath slowed and her body grew still. It was quite as passings go, and rather peaceful given the disease she had. That didn't make the loss any easier. It was like someone had ripped out Watson's physical heart along with his metaphorical one. There was a great big hole in his chest and it hurt more than any bullet wound that had ever pierced his skin. Despite all his suffering and loss, he wasn't dead yet, and that seemed to make the least sense to him of all. Why was the sun still rising, the world still turning, the people still moving? Why was he still breathing, still alive, still hurting? Why didn't the world end when she did? How could life possibly carry on?

Holmes watched his friend suffer over the next few days and it was practically unbearable. It was as if John had ceased to exist when Mary died. He stopped eating, he didn't sleep, didn't talk, didn't move, he just sat in his room and stared into nothingness. Sherlock began to realize that the longer John remained there, the worse he would get. As much as it pained him to be away from his friend, when Watson's family suggested he go away for a while, Holmes was in no position to argue. Although he would have preferred to stay at his friend's side, Holmes could not leave London for an unknown amount of time, nor could he force Watson to stay. He wasn't entirely sold that John wanted to go but there was little he could do as John's family soon came to collect him and took him away. They hoped that staying with family in America, taking him away from all the familiar reminders of Mary, would heal him in time. Holmes hoped they were right. The idea that Watson should leave forever and never return to England again…it scared him much more than he wished to admit. And so time slowly passed….


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: Ah, now that the last chapter is behind us, we can get on to the fun! Yes this story is a bit dark…at least for now…but that was how I imagined it in my mind. I promise there will be lighter parts too. And now, on to the story!

Chapter Two

Sherlock Holmes sat in his familiar armchair by the fire looking at the letter in his hand for what must have been the hundredth time. A fleeting sense of joy and hope filled him, but was quickly joined by dread and anticipation. Watson was finally returning to England. It had been over a year since Mary had died and he had left for America at the insistence of his family. The letter was frank, but still had a tone to it that was distinctly Watson. Holmes was unsure what he would find of the man he had once known. Would he be exactly as before? Would he be the broken shell of a man that had left? Or some mixture of a half rebuilt life? Sherlock was not an emotional man. It was below one of logic such as himself. But even that did not prevent him from admitting that he had become rather attached to his ex-flat mate. Watson was perhaps the closest friend he had ever had, if not his only. He often longed for the days before Mary's existence had occurred when the two of them would run around on cases, fighting crime, and enjoying each other's company around the house. Not to mention the bickering, nagging, pranking, and all other sorts of mischief that occurred in 221B Baker Street. The halls had become rather quiet and lonely without the presence of the kind doctor, and Holmes was eager to have his compatriot live with him again, although again, there was the question of how much of that man was still in existence.

Holmes was disturbed from his musings when a sharp knock came to the door downstairs. At least one thing had not changed about John Watson. It was the same distinct rap that he had always used since the day they first met. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of the detective's lips. It was a pleasantly familiar sound and he welcomed it.

John took in the familiar shape and color of the front door of 221B Baker Street and felt an odd sense of homecoming. He would be lying to say that it was easy to return to London, but if there was ever a refuge in the entire large and boisterous city, it was in this small dwelling. Yes it had ties to Mary; even now the name tugged at the frayed edges of the hole inside his chest where his heart had once been; but it was also a home of sorts, and that was what he craved most now. He had spent over a year craving solitude, learning how to live again, how to breathe, how to eat, how to think. He wanted to die in the worse way possible. He wanted to escape every throb of pain that filled his mind and body from a wound that not even his doctoral expertise could heal. But now, he wished for some sense of normality. He wanted to escape the pitying looks, the hushed voices, the tear filled eyes. He wanted someone to treat him like a human being again. How else could he begin to feel like one again? There was only one person insensitive enough to ignore completely the actions that had happened to him over a year ago, and that was the refuge he sought now. It seemed ironic in a way, that lack of emotion that he had always scolded Sherlock for was now what he craved most. No emotions. Emotions hurt and emotions killed. He could do with a little less emotion.

The lock of the door clicked, drawing Watson back into the present. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he thought of his old hassled land lady and how she would react seeing him again. He knew she would be glad of his presence. After all living along with Sherlock Holmes was no easy task. To John's great surprise however, it was not Mrs. Hudson that opened the door. It was a young woman in her early twenties with soft chocolate hair twisted into a plait over her shoulder. She looked at him with soft blue eyes matching the blouse she wore and smiled.

"Mr. Watson I presume?" she asked. Watson blinked.

"Ah…yes…that's me." he fumbled. What sort of prank was Holmes playing on him now? The young lady held the door open for him.

"Do come in. Mr. Holmes is up in his study waiting for you. I'll get your bags." she offered. Watson stepped inside, bag in hand.

"No need, I can carry it." he gave her his best attempt at a friendly expression, which ended up as a polite sort of expression and a curt nod before he made his way for the stairs. He had to get to the bottom of this.

Holmes could hear the familiar sound of Watson's feet on the stairs, one footfall distinctly heavier than the other and the soft thump of his cane for support. It would seem his leg was giving him a little more trouble today. A quick glance at the window told him that the sky outside was particularly cloudy; an atmospheric reaction then. He counted Watson's steps and just when they reached the outside of his door he spoke.

"Come in Doctor." Sherlock called, thoroughly pleased with himself. John walked in, dropping his bag by the door, taking in the familiar sights and scents. For a moment he couldn't help the feeling of nostalgia as he smelt the scents of alcohol and pipe tobacco, the room dark and smoky as always. Holmes was sitting in the same chair he always sat in, looking at him with that same expectant smug look. The look he gave Watson whenever he was about to explain a deduction that would certainly make him feel 10 times stupider in its simplicity. Usually John wanted to hit him when he gave him that look, but today it brought a fondness that he had not expected to feel. It was good to see the detective, in all his irksome and quirky mannerisms. It was that thought that reminded him of the new woman downstairs, for Holmes was nothing if private, and liked his repetition, and this woman did not fit into either as far as he was aware of. Had, in his absence, Sherlock fallen in love and become domestic? The very idea made Watson's head spin. It seemed more improbable than the detective admitting that Scotland Yard was a group of intelligent well trained men, and he knew that was impossible.

"I know what you're thinking." Sherlock says with a look of amusement. John sighed. Yes, things were just as they were. With a humoring smile Watson leaned on his cane and steadied his gaze on his companion.

"And what is that?" he asks, humoring him.

"You wish to know the name of the young lady downstairs, who she is, and why she is here. And also the location of our dear keeper Mrs. Hudson." Holmes replies quite confidently.

"And?" Watson waits, knowing well that he didn't have to tell Holmes he was correct for him to know it.

"Mrs. Hudson chose to retire not long after you left. That is her niece, Lily. She has taken over Mrs. Hudson's job as our landlady slash house keeper. Not a bad cook though." Sherlock's response was as nonchalant as could be, the ending statement seemingly the most important of the whole discussion. Watson was at a loss. Mrs. Hudson retired? New landlady? He supposed that the kind woman couldn't work forever, and that change was bound to happen, but he had rather looked forward to returning to the place that never seemed to change at all, despite the rapid and continuous changes of the world around them. With a sigh John conceded. It wasn't as if he had a choice. If the young woman had earned the detective's respect enough to be allowed to walk freely around the house and cook food for him, then she must be a trustworthy woman. Holmes seemed to be aware of Watson's thoughts once again and gestured for him to take the seat across from him, a chair that had once been considered Watson's regular, and it seemed had been saved for him, even after all this time. Watson sat and sank comfortably back into the familiar cushions with a mixture of scents that distinctly had a sensation of home to him. Holmes studied him for a long minute, his brown eyes taking in every detail there was to see, and many more that Watson himself was unaware that he showed. The awkwardness of their reunion finally seemed to fill the air. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Well…I am glad that you are back….it's…good to see you old boy." he finally says, breaking the silence. Watson nodded.

"You as well old chap." he replies, slipping back into the same fond terms of their past. He toyed with his cane in his hand absentmindedly.

"Do you have any plans for the day?" Holmes asked, breaking another short pause. Watson shook his head. He did not particularly desire to go out. He was here, in this house, physically in London. That was enough for him, and far closer than he ever thought he would be. Holmes nodded in seeming understanding, though Watson could only wonder if he really did.

"I could pass the time with stories of my past cases." he offers. It was, after all, his favorite kind of story. A curiosity sparkled in the doctor's eyes, a light that had not been seen in them since before the last time Sherlock saw the man, since before Mary's death. Eager to continue to revive that life, Sherlock picked up his prized pipe, tapped it against his hand, and then began to fill it. Watson shifted into a more comfortable position and sat back, ready to follow in his mind on the many great adventures of his friend, if only in his mind. Holmes lit his pipe and took a puff before settling back to regale his stories.

The night passed quickly after that. Food was brought up for them and they ate without paying much attention to the food that entered their mouths as they talked for hours and hours. Sherlock told tales of cases big and small, intricate and simple, and how he followed each deduction with perfect detail. John spoke of America and his family and a bit of the time he spent over the past year, although those stories seemed to pull the doctor back inside himself. They settled, instead, to reminisce over the adventures they shared together before when they both lived at 221B Baker Street before, although both deliberately avoided any mention of Mary. It was the wee hours of the morning before they both turned in for the night, tongues tired and hearts content, feeling that once again some semblance of normality had returned to their lives and to the house.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: Once again I apologize for the wait. Summer school takes up sooo much time. Anyone seen the preview for the new Sherlock Holmes movie? Fantastic! I'm super excited. There's some situational irony that you will find if you follow my story long enough. But that's all I'll say. On to another chapter!

Chapter Three

A week easily flew by as the two companions of 221B Baker Street fell back into their usual patterns of living together as they had before. It was very similar to the times when John had first moved in with Sherlock and his health was not entirely perfect. He did not go out as often and seemed more solitary, although he spent a good deal of time sitting around Holmes' office. While Holmes would work or think, Watson would just sit and read or find other ways to pass the time. It occurred to Sherlock, however, that this might not be entirely good for the doctor. Although he greatly enjoyed passing every hour locked indoors himself, he recalled his friend often pestering him to go out of doors. The fact that Watson did not seem to want to go out was out of character, and therefore, a frustration to the detective. As time was moving from one week closer to two since John's arrival, Sherlock had had enough. The two were sitting together in the sitting room, Sherlock plucking idly on his violin, and John reading the morning paper. Holmes peeked over at Watson but Watson was paying no mind to him. With a devilish smile Holmes plucked a particularly sour note. The reaction was instant. Watson's back straightened and his grip on the paper tightened in a silent cringe. Although he couldn't see the doctor's face, he knew the man's jaw had tightened and his eyes narrowed. Step one complete – get the subject's attention. Step two – push the limit. Sherlock drug the bow across the violin creating a long loud screeching noise. Watson physically twitched as his annoyance and discomfort grew. Step two complete. Step three – make subject plead for mercy. The cacophonous noises coming from Holmes's violin would have been enough to make any sane man snap. It was a note to the doctor's strength just how long he was able to hold out.

"For heaven's sake Holmes! Stop that infernal noise!" Watson snapped, throwing down his paper in his lap and throwing a glare at the detective. The look on Holmes's face was a mixture of angelic innocence, and wicked glee at his success.

"Why my dear fellow, I had no idea it was bothering you." Holmes replied, sobering his face up into pure feigned innocence. Watson made a sound of distaste. He knew Sherlock well enough to know when he was being played.

"What is it you want?" he asked with a resigned sigh. Step three – complete. Step four – propose desired activity. Sherlock yawned and stretched his arms over his head, bow in one hand, and violin in the other.

"Bit stuffy in here don't you think?" Holmes asked. Watson waited for the rest. When it was clear John wasn't going to play along, Holmes continued.

"Why don't we go out for a stroll for a bit? Stretch our legs?" he asked, glancing at Watson's leg that had caused the doctor so much grief since his painful wound on the battlefield. Step four complete, and now the final step – subject's acceptance of desired activity. Watson sighed and looked at his newspaper. He'd been avoiding this, it was true. He had said he wanted things to be just as they once were when he came back here, but he had not done entirely that. The truth was he was hiding. There were a great deal of reminders out there, and in his hope to shut away the pain, he had shut himself away from the world. Part of him had known that he couldn't stay that way forever, but part of him had hoped that he could.

"The fresh air will do you some good." the detective said quietly, a touch of kindness in his voice. John looked at him and gave him a small smile before setting the paper aside. Sherlock let a small smirk pull at the corner of his lips, the final step was complete.

The two got their coats and hats and soon set off down the road side by side, their steps nearly in sync except for Watson's limp. They were quite a pair to behold, Holmes and Watson, as they had always been since the doctor had met the detective. There were those that remembered the doctor and had seen the two set off like this on many a day to solve one case or another, and when they saw the two out together again, they gave the pair a nod and smile. After all, who doesn't like to see the happy and familiar?

As the two travelled the sound of music filled the air and voices chanting and calling. Before they could round the corner, Holmes stated his theory on the source of the noise.

"Gypsies." was the only word necessary to describe the sight that then met them. A group of bystanders gathered around to watch a single girl dressed in rich colors dance around revealing more skin than was usually proper for a woman of that time. A group of men in loose shirts and open vests sat around with instruments and played for her, grinning and singing. A hat stood at the front of the spectacle, open and waiting for payment from the passersby that stopped to watch. The girl twirled, causing her flowing turquoise skirt to flutter out in a perfect bell and her dark curls to dance around her face. She twirled right through the crowd and came to a stop in front of the detective and doctor, her bright blue eyes, a rare color for her people, sparkled in the sunlight as she looked them over. She flashed them a smile and then continued her dance back to the center of the circle. Holmes glanced at Watson but the doctor showed no emotion on his face. This both surprised and impressed the detective, for the man he had once known would certainly have shown an interest in the girl, even if he knew he should not. Perhaps Watson had changed more than he expected. Only time and further observation would tell. The two turned and set off down a less crowded path to continue their stroll.

They walked through the park and spoke mildly of the weather and health of the plants. A few nostalgic memories were recalled of times they had been there before and finally when there was nothing left to say they fell into a comfortable silence. Some would feel awkward here, or uneasy, but for them it was just another form of conversation, only silence, and word's weren't necessary to pass the time, only the presence of another human being so that they might not feel completely solitary in such a large and vast world. Soon the sun began to set and two turned their feet back towards home and the hopes of a warm fresh meal. Mrs. Hudson's niece was waiting for them when they returned with the door open and ready.

"Welcome home Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." she smiled kindly as she stepped aside for them to enter.

"May I take your coat and hat for you?" she asked, holding out her arms. Holmes dropped his coat and hat in her arms without a blink. Watson gave her a gentlemanly smile.

"Thank you Miss Lily." he said as he handed his own over. The girl smiled.

"My pleasure sir." she replied, "Dinner is ready. I took the liberty of setting it out on the table for you downstairs." Watson nodded to her and followed Holmes, who had already walked into the room.

"Couldn't you be a bit more polite?" Watson asked as he and Holmes took a seat at the table. Sherlock threw him a dirty look. That didn't faze him however.

"She seems like a nice girl. There's no need to be so cold to her." he added. Now Holmes seemed amused.

"You've taken to her nicely." he mused. John pointed his fork at him, a dark look on his face.

"Don't even start." he warned him, all joking tones gone from his voice. Holmes shrugged and went back to his dinner. A long awkward silence fell over the pair broken only by the sound of clinking china as they ate. Holmes wasn't bothered however. This certainly wasn't the first time he had annoyed the doctor, and certainly wouldn't be the last. Finally as they were finishing the last of their wine glasses, Holmes broke the silence.

"I have a new case." he said. Watson looked at him, surprised and a bit knocked off guard.

"When did you get that?" he asked confused.

"I looked through my requests and found one that wasn't such a complete insult to my practice that I could take it. There is a rent after all." Holmes replied with a slight air of amusement. Watson nodded.

"So are you going to tell me anything about it?" he asked, perking up a bit. That was all the invitation Sherlock needed.

"Let's retire upstairs and I'll tell you everything." he said, getting to his feet. John did the same and the two headed back to the sitting room, their fight completely forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: So, been a long time since I've updated this story too. Sorry! It's going to take me a little while to get back in my stride with this one. I found I had half-finished this chapter and it took me a while to figure out where I was going with it. Not to worry! I promise things will begin rolling soon. Thanks for your patience guys! Be on the lookout for more chapters of both this story and my other one!

Chapter Four

The case was rather simple, missing jewels of a wealthy widow, and Holmes had his theories before they had arrived on the scene. The woman was about as friendly as a clam but they got the information they needed and Holmes went to inspect the room where the jewels were kept. Watson followed along quietly, enjoying seeing the detective at work. It was nice to be on a case again, although his assistance was always very limited. Holmes walked over to the woman's vanity where the jewelry box was and paused. He inspected around it and his eyes seemed to catch on different objects. He leaned forward and inspected the mirror. He crouched down so he could look up at the mirror.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, clearly having found what he was looking for, and yet seeming a little surprised at what he found.

"What is it?" Watson asked, walking over. Holmes gestured for him to crouch beside him. With a sigh Watson did so and looked up to where Holmes was pointing.

"What do you see doctor?" Sherlock asked. Watson looked up and noticed that there were finger prints on the mirror, invisible when you looked directly at them, but at an angle clearly visible. They had drawn the shape of heart in the top corner. John tilted his head to the side slightly.

"A heart?" he asked, confused as to why it was there. Holmes jumped to his feet.

"Exactly!" he said, growing excited as he picked up the perfume bottle and sniffed it. Watson stood as well.

"What the devil are you doing?" he asked. Holmes puffed a bit in front of Watson.

"Smell," he commanded. Watson sniffed. It was a light flowery scent, very appealing, and somehow familiar in a very vague way. Holmes seemed to observe Watson's confusion and explained.

"Japanese cherry blossom. A rare scent here. I don't think this is the scent of the woman's usual perfume." There was a dangerous twinkle in Holmes's eyes, a twinkle of excitement now that he was on the hunt of a case that clearly interested him more now that he was here. Watson, on the other hand, was lost.

"How can you know that?" he asked. Holmes rolled his eyes.

"It was not the scent the woman was wearing today," he replied. Either Watson needed a new nose or it was a credit to the detective that he picked up all these things. For the sake of his sanity, he gave the credit to Holmes and not the fault to himself. The detective had long left the vanity now and was inspecting the window. He shook his head.

"Not this way," he mused and then went to another, "nor here….or here." The same mumble for every window he walked past. Finally he stopped in front of the door.

"Perhaps?" he mused aloud then strolled right out of the room. Watson gave a quick glance to the heavens then followed along after him, knowing better than to try to stop his train of thought while it was charging full speed ahead. By the time he caught up with the detective, he was already questioning the lady of the house again.

"Madam, have you recently hired any new employees?" he asked. The woman nodded.

"About a month ago," she replied.

"A long time to plan," Holmes mused to himself and then nodded.

"I shall have your jewels for you soon," he replied and headed for the door. Watson bowed his head respectfully to the lady.

"Good day madam," he said then hurried after Holmes. Sherlock was leisurely strolling down the street now, seemingly without a care in the world. John fell in step with him and waited as patiently as he could for the detective to explain his behavior and thoughts. Finally Sherlock took mercy on him.

"There is no need to chase after the thief," he explained. Watson raised an eyebrow.

"Why not?" he asked. Holmes looked at him with amusement.

"They will come to me," he replied. Watson paused.

"You're not going to tell me anything more now are you?" he asked knowingly. The detective seemed to glow with entertainment.

"I'm certain you will sort it out for yourself," he replied. The good doctor sighed and tried to think back over all the clues that had been laid before him. Perfume, a heart, missing jewels, and a thief who would come to Holmes. What else was he missing? He remembered Sherlock's question to the lady.

"The thief pretended to be a new employee for the woman," he guessed. Holmes nodded.

"Very good, Watson," he replied. Watson pondered again.

"It's a woman?" he took a stab in the dark, after all a heart isn't normally something a man would write, or wear perfume.

"Correct again," Holmes replied with another nod. Watson sighed. He wasn't a fool, but sometimes it was nearly impossible to follow the detective's logic until after all the cards had been laid on the table. And of course, the cryptic man never put everything out until after the case was over. Lost in thought he didn't see Holmes's eyes twinkle, or the apparent flash of a plan fill his eyes and then fade away into innocence again.

"Why don't you go on ahead without me old boy, I've got to look into something," Holmes said and patted Watson's shoulder before disappearing. Watson tried to protest but was left standing alone on the street. He sighed and continued walking back towards the house.

"Care to have your fortune read?" a feminine voice called to him as he passed an alley. He paused to find the owner of the voice and saw the gypsy girl from the day before walking up to him. He shook his head and smiled politely.

"Thank you but no." he replied. The girl didn't seem to want to take no for an answer.

"Why not? I think it might be beneficial to you," she said.

"I appreciate your, but I will pass," he said again as he attempted to side step her. She moved in his way with a polite but spritely smile, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Why?"

"I don't believe in palm readings."

"That's a shame."

"I don't mean to offend you." Again, with a polite nod of his head, John attempted to side step the woman. He really didn't want to be rude, but his interaction with females, beyond family and now Mrs. Hudson's niece, was minimal. It seemed every one reminded him in one way or another of Mary. Not to mention, where he had once been a dashing young bachelor, he now felt older somehow, like a crippled widower, ancient and gray, not suited for talking to beautiful young women. That and the scantily clad gypsy made him a little uncomfortable.

"None taken," she replied and fell in step with him as they walked down the street.

"You're not going to give up are you?" he asked with a bemused expression.

"I don't give up easily. One of my selling points," she answered with a wink. "Will you answer me a question?"

"Will you stop asking to read my palm?"

"Maybe."

"I suppose it cannot be helped then." A small smile curved the corner of his lip.

"Do you not want me to read your palm because you don't believe in it, or because you are afraid of what you will find there?" Her question caught him short and he looked at her surprised.

"What is your name?" he asked her, ignoring her question with one of his own.

"Mirela."

"That is a beautiful name," he complimented.

"Thank you," she replied smiling.

They had reached Baker Street at this point.

"Well, Mirela, you will have to excuse me, but this is my street," he said, reaching up to tap his hat to her.

"Until next time then," she replied with a playful wink and sauntered off into the crowd of people, a tiny tinkle of bells following her as she went. Watson watched her go and remained there for a moment longer before shaking himself and making his way back to 221B. Much to his great surprise, Holmes was already inside his study, sitting comfortably in his chair, waiting for Watson's return.

"You've been gone a while," he noted.

"I was held up," John replied simply, sinking into his chair with a sigh.

"By a gypsy?" Sherlock asked.

"Did you bribe this one too?" Watson asked jokingly.

Holmes didn't reply.

Watson looked up at him, "You did?"

The detective was suddenly extremely intent upon a stain on his jacket sleeve.

"Holmes." Watson gave a heavy sigh.

"They seem to be all over the streets these days, don't they?" The man in question mused.

"And you seem to be their main proprietor," Watson accused.

"Hardly."

Watson picked up his abandoned newspaper from earlier that morning and snapped it open, the sharp sound echoing his discontent.

"You have mail," Sherlock said quietly after a long silence.

"Hm?" Watson wasn't paying attention.

"On the table. The landlady left it." Holmes returned Watson's nonchalant tone with an equally bored voice. John sighed and set his newspaper aside, reaching over to the table and lifting a letter. He looked at the envelope for a moment before shrugging and opening it. He read the contents in silence, aware that his companion was watching him. Sherlock was curious about the letter, but would never admit it.

The doctor finally broke the silence, "it looks like we'll be having a guest."

"Oh really? Who?"

"Another cousin of mine. I haven't seen her since we were small children. She grew up in Wales and is in London visiting. She'd like to come over tomorrow for tea."

"Do you have a picture of this young cousin?" Holmes questioned, leaning forward slightly.

"Probably somewhere, why?" Watson asked in confusion.

"No reason," Holmes instantly leaned back again. Watson eyed him.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked.

"Only time shall tell, old fellow," Holmes replied, placing the tips of his fingers together in front of his chin in his usual thoughtful manner, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Only time shall tell."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: I'm working on this whole, uploading more often than once every couple months thing haha. Hope you guys are enjoying the story so far. I promise that things are going to get rolling more now that all the "setting the stage" stuff is done. As Holmes would say, the game is afoot! Shall we see where he takes us?

Chapter Five

John Watson sat in his chair by the fire dosing fitfully. In his mind he was reliving that horrible day he first realized Mary was ill. Only it had warped as only dreams can. One second she is pouring tea into a cup, the next she is collapsing to the ground, blood trickling down from her lips across deathly pale skin. He holds her in his arms, trying to wake her, but when her eyes open they are entirely bloodshot.

_"Why, John? Why didn't you save me?"_ the dream Mary demands. He tries to tell her that it's not his fault. He did everything he could. He tried to save her.

_"You should have known. You should have seen it. I thought you were a doctor,"_ she accuses. His heart twists in his chest and he knows she's right. He tells her he's sorry.

_"Sorry isn't enough, John. I'm dead."_

John snapped awake drenched in a light sheen of sweat. He let out a low moan, hiding his face behind his hand. This nightmare had haunted him for over a year now. Those accusing eyes. They haunted him every breath of every day. The hole in his chest seared and his stomach twisted. For a moment John was sure he was going to be sick.

"Watson?" Holmes's voice called in concern. "Watson, what's wrong?" Sherlock moved over beside the doctor, touching his shoulder. When Watson didn't respond, Sherlock shook his shoulder a little more fiercely.

"I'm alright, Holmes." Watson sighed and lowered his shaking hand from his face. "I'm fine."

"It never ceases to amaze me that people attempt to lie to me," Holmes replied, clearly annoyed.

"And you of all people. You realize I can see right through it don't you?"

John just looked up at him. The raw pain shocked Sherlock into silence. Whatever snide or clipped remark he was going to make fell on silent lips. He sighed at patted the doctor's shoulder before going over to the window and looking out, clasping his hands behind his back. John watched him in equal silence.

"You were dreaming." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

"I was." Even to Watson his voice sounded dry and hoarse.

"About Mary."

"…."

"You can't keep beating yourself up about it, you know."

"Holmes, do we have to talk about this?"

"Your cousin has arrived." The statement was such a sudden topic change that it took Watson a few minutes to even understand what Holmes had said. After he processed what was said he stood. The words "are you sure" were on his lips before he could think about what he was saying, but he managed to pull them back in time. Of course he was sure. It was Sherlock bloody Holmes after all. If there was a day where the detective was ever not sure, Watson would pay good money to see it.

Downstairs the doorbell rang followed by the sound of Lily opening the door. Muffled conversation followed as complete silence filled the room between the doctor and the detective. John pushed himself up out of his chair when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock turned in time to face the door as someone knocked.

"Come in."

The door sprang open and in walked a beautiful young woman bursting with so much life the room seemed to brighten a little just with her entrance.

"Oh John it's so good to see you," she said sweetly, going over to him and hugging him without a moment's pause. He faltered and then returned the gesture.

"You as well, Rachel. Would you like to sit down?" he offered.

Rachel sat in the chair Watson gestured to and took in the room with wide, green eyes.

"My, what an interesting room," she complimented.

"My study," Sherlock said simply, walking over to the mantle top to collect his clay pipe.

"And you must be Mr. Holmes. I've heard so much about you," Rachel said with a smile. Holmes looked at Watson with a cocked eyebrow. He merely shrugged his response.

"And what have you heard?" Holmes asked.

"Well you are a consulting detective. The only one of your kind."

"That is because I created the job."

"You have quite a gift for it too unless I am mistaken."

"I do my best."

"You have a knack for making grand deductions from little things and spotting the most marvelous details."

Sherlock merely looked over her as his response, taking what he needed with his eyes.

"And you are quite a character to live with," she finished with a giggle. Watson couldn't hold back a chuckle. Sherlock looked bemused and lit his pipe.

"And you got all this information from Watson?" he asked.

"And the papers. I've been reading up since I got here," she replied.

Sherlock looked ready to respond but was interrupted by Lily walking in with a tray of tea. She set it down on a little coffee table beside Rachel and poured three cups.

"Thank you Lily," Watson said, giving her a small smile. She smiled back warmly.

"No trouble at all, Doctor. Just call if I can do anything else," she replied before walking out. He watched the door swing slowly shut behind her before moving to serve the tea. He handed a cup to Rachel and picked up the other two. One he held to Holmes, who took it after a moment, and kept the other as he settled back into his chair.

"So how is the family?" he asked, taking a sip of tea.

Rachel poured a spoonful of sugar into her cup and stirred it delicately. "They're fine. All worried about you of course. They send their love."

"You'll have to send them my thanks." John nodded.

Sherlock watched the two with hawk-like eyes, particularly focusing on their new guest. His tea sat forgotten, resting on the mantle beside his arm as he leaned against the wall. He puffed small clouds of smoke almost unaware that he was smoking at all.

"How have you been?" Rachel asked, a little more delicate now.

John sighed.

"I've been better…but I've been worse too."

Rachel gave him another kind smile. "I'm glad to hear that. We've all been worried."

"Your hair is not naturally blonde, is it?" Sherlock asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"Holmes," Watson warned. How many times had they been down this road?

"Pardon?" Rachel tucked a small curl of blonde hair behind her ear, the rest piled atop her head.

"Your eyebrows are a different shade than your hair. They are darker. This leads me to believe you are not naturally blonde," Holmes explained. Rachel flushed.

"I…" she fumbled for her words.

"That is none of your business." John came to her rescue giving Sherlock a warning look. Sherlock remained unfazed. Like a predatory bird, his eyes remained fixed on the woman squirming slightly in her seat. Watson got to his feet in a huff.

"Rachel, perhaps you would like to accompany me on a stroll through the park? It's quite lovely this time of year and I could use the exercise and fresh air."

"Oh….of course…." Rachel got to her feet, avoiding the detective's eye. She placed her hand on John's arm when he offered it to her.

"I'll be back" was John's goodbye to the detective before leading Rachel out of the room. She glanced back at Sherlock as she was making her way through the door.

Holmes lowered himself into his chair trying to ponder the correct word to describe the gleam in her eye. Playful? No. Laughing? Not quite. Lively? That wasn't it either. And then it struck him. He knew exactly how to categorize the look gleaming from those green eyes at him. Mischievous.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: Surprise! Another chapter! Things are finally getting rolling for me in this story. Get ready for some fun! Thanks to everyone who has been favoriting and reviewing my story – it means a whole lot. After all, what's a writer without readers? But enough about me, you don't come to hear me rant. On with the story!

Chapter Six

Dr. Watson sighed as he walked out of the hotel Rachel was staying at. After leaving Holmes the two had strolled together for a while catching up on old times before parting ways back at her hotel. He made his way down the street, mostly ignoring the hustle and bustle around him. He hadn't ventured to this area of town yet. It was closer to where Mary had lived. When he and Holmes went on strolls to the park, they stuck closer to home. For as much as he wanted to hit the detective, he knew that Sherlock was looking out for him. His friend was strange, but loyal. John was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize someone had fallen in step with him at first.

"You're looking rather melancholy today," a familiar female voice finally broke through his thoughts.

Watson turned to meet with a pair of blue eyes.

"Ah…Mirela." It took him a moment to remember her name, but he nodded his head respectfully to her all the same.

She smiled. "You remembered me."

"We only spoke yesterday," John replied with a small smile of his own.

"May I walk with you?" she asked.

"If you wish," he replied as courteously as he could. She studied him as they continued walking.

"Lovely weather today," she stated after a moment, turning to look ahead instead of watching him.

"It is rather nice, as far as London goes," he said with a nod.

"So you've travelled," she surmised.

"You're correct."

"Where to?"

"I've recently returned from America."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Neither."

Mirela looked at him then, confused by his answer. He glanced at her, aware that his answer would be confusing and not really wanting to answer the questions his response was sure to produce. But something about the gypsy girl brought it out of him. There was something kind about her face that caused him to naturally answer her honestly. If he were a younger version of himself, he might even be in danger of coming to care for her. But that was a long time ago, he reminded himself, before his heart stopped.

"So if you were in America for neither business nor pleasure then you must have had a reason. If it wasn't for enjoyment, then you didn't go willingly. But you didn't go for business so…family?" Mirela took a wild stab in the dark.

John sighed, knowing he would answer before he did. "Yes."

"Do you stroll out here often?" Her drastic change of subject caught him off-guard.

"Not normally…" he replied slowly.

"That's too bad," she answered simply.

"May I ask why?" he asked.

"No reason." She looked at him with a twinkle in his eye that told him the exact opposite. She had a reason; she just wasn't going to _tell_ him. She smiled and looked back ahead, taking in the crowd and their surroundings. Her vibrant red skirt rustled with every step accented by the faint tingling of bells that looped around her ankle. All around them people turned to look at her, some in distain, and others in appreciation. Aesthetically speaking, Watson admitted to himself that the red was a nice color against her olive skin-tone, accentuated by the starkness of the white of her top and the simplicity of her brown vest. He mentally shook himself then. There was no direction that sort of thinking could lead that would be a benefit to him and it was better to stop while he was ahead.

"You certainly couldn't sneak up on someone," he offered a new source of conversation after a moment's silence.

"Hm?"

"Your bells."

"Oh. No, I suppose I couldn't," she answered with a laugh.

"All a part of the job I suppose," he added with a small shrug.

"I suppose," she replied, smiling. After another moment she turned to him.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Perhaps I'll see you around again," she said, giving him a wink and a smile before disappearing into the crowd.

John listened to the sound of her bells tinkling away into the chaos of a busy London street. Somehow John suspected dancing wasn't the only "job" she did. He felt his pocket for his wallet and was surprised to find it still there. Whatever her reason for strolling with him was, it wasn't to pick his pocket. Deciding not to press his luck, he turned and continued on his way back to Baker Street.

Much to Holmes's advantage, by the time Watson returned to 221B, their previous quarrel was long forgotten. Lily took John's coat and hat at the door and hung them up in the closet.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Doctor Watson? It's a cool day and I'd hate for you to catch cold," she offered, looking over him with concern.

He gave her a small smile. "Thank you, Miss Lily, that would be very nice."

"My pleasure. I'm just glad to see back here at Baker Street. My aunt told me so many stories about you and Mr. Holmes. I know he missed you while you were gone," she said with a warm smile. Watson looked at her surprised. He might use that later to accuse Holmes of feeling sentiment, something he deeply deplored.

"He's up in his study now I believe. Last I checked he was playing with his chemicals again," she added with a small look of disdain.

John laughed. "What is he trying to create this time?"

"I haven't the foggiest. He is fascinating to watch though, isn't he? My aunt said he was a lunatic. I think he's a genius," she replied, a faint glimmer in her eyes.

"Careful he hears you or his already swollen ego with expand," Watson warned with a smile.

"As a matter of fact I can hear you both very well!" Holmes's voice echoed down from upstairs. The doctor and Lily exchanged a look before they both burst into laughter. A disgruntled Holmes appeared at the top of the stairs. He watched the two attempt to stifle their laughter, Lily covering her mouth with her hand, Watson merely bending slightly over his cane. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. He hadn't seen John laugh like that since before Mary passed. It was a little glimmer of his old friend back. Perhaps this once he'd allow them to enjoy themselves at his expense. But only this once. Next time there would be repercussions.

"Well, are you coming or aren't you?" Holmes asked, turning back to his study and disappearing again.

"Coming Holmes," Watson replied, making his way up the stairs.

"I'll bring up your tea in a minute," Lily called after him.

He nodded to show her he heard her and made his way into the study. Holmes was over at one of the tables he'd converted into his lab, covered in tubes and bottles and papers and the like. The detective was currently bent over a tube as he slowly poured two liquids together. Watson sighed as he lowered into his chair and watched him.

"Do I want to know what you're making?" he asked.

"No." Holmes lifted a small bottle to his lips and took a swig before setting it aside again. John frowned.

"Do I want to know what you are drinking?"

"No."

"Is it from my supply again?"

"That would be most inconvenient for your medical practice."

"Yes it would. And dangerous to your health."

"Hm" was Holmes's only response as he continued his work. "Speaking of your medical practice, do you intend to start taking on patients again? We do have a rent to pay you know."

"Oh…yes…I suppose I should." In all honestly John had forgotten about that. He hadn't taken a patient since Mary fell ill. He wasn't even sure he could anymore.

"You know what they say about falling off the horse old boy."

"Kill the horse?"

Sherlock gave his morbid friend a look. "Morbidity is my area of expertise thank you very much. No as a matter of fact. They say you get back on it."

"I thought you didn't like horses."

"Beside the point. And this one is metaphorical."

"So metaphorical horses are alright?" John was enjoying messing with his friend.

"No, they are still nasty devils."

"So…" Watson grinned, knowing he was pushing Holmes's buttons.

"Confound it Watson that is beside the point! You know what I meant!" Holmes was properly flustered now and downed the rest of his bottle before tossing it across the room for emphasis. He returned to his work in a surly silence. John chuckled and picked up his paper, snapping it open to break the heavy silence.

"I understand," he said quietly after a minute, "thank you old chap."

Holmes merely nodded. Lily walked in then and set down the tray of tea before glance around the room. She found an old tea tray abandoned on the floor across the room and went over to pick it up.

"Leave it! I'm performing an experiment in one of those cups," Holmes commanded, leaping over a pile of books beside him to block her off. Lily giggled and raised her hands.

"Alright but if you spoil my china I'll make you replace it," she replied. He studied her for a moment, as if sizing her up. She held her chin high and met his gaze.

"Very well," he replied simply and returned to his work. John glanced over his paper at her and the two shared a smile.

"I'll be downstairs if you need me," Lily said before exiting the room. Comfortable silence followed.

"Your cousin return safely to her hotel?" Sherlock asked after a while. John sighed. Here it was, Sherlock's retaliation. He turned the page of his paper and debating on ignoring him.

"Yes," he finally answered curtly, hoping to end the conversation.

"Interesting girl," Sherlock mused.

"She and I were close when we were younger."

"So you're sure it's her then?"

John snapped his paper down and turned to look and the detective. Holmes kept his back to him as he worked.

"Yes I am! Are you sure she isn't?" he demanded in frustration.

"Yes," Holmes answered quietly but in a firm voice.

"And who, pray tell, do you think it is then?" Watson asked.

"Do you remember the case three years ago? The one I technically solved too late?" The silence between them was heavy. Oh yes, John remembered it like it was yesterday…


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: Another chapter! Yay! Sorry for the delay! Thanks again to all my readers! In case anyone is wondering, yes, this chapter and the next couple are going to be flashbacks. I'll let you know when we get back to present day. Let's find out about the almost case!

Chapter Seven

_Three Years Ago:_

Sherlock plucked at his violin in boredom as Watson turned the page of his newspaper. A particularly sour note caused Watson's hand to twitch and tear the side of his newspaper. The grating sounds had led him to grip the paper so tight it was taunt. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of the detective's lips. He was entirely aware of the effect of his cacophonous strumming on the good doctor.

"For god's sake man, can't you find something else to do?" Watson demanded, setting his torn paper down in his lap. Holmes chuckled.

"I'm afraid not old boy. There is nothing of any interest or importance going on. It's this or –"before he could finish his threat, laced with a tone of amusement, Watson cut in.

"No, I'd rather you didn't," John replied. He highly disapproved of his flat-mate's use of cocaine and other drugs at regular intervals. A smug look touched the expression of Sherlock as he went back to plucking strings of his violin. Watson sighed in pained resignation. A distressed knock came to the door and Lestrade quickly stormed in. Holmes instantly sat up.

"Have another troubling case Lestrade?" Holmes asked good humoredly. Lestrade was so agitated he didn't make a comeback.

"I need your help Mr. Holmes," he replied flat out. Watson and Holmes shared a glance. Sherlock sat back in his chair; the tips of his fingers pressed together, his eyes holding steady on Lestrade.

"What can I do for you?" he asked. Watson gestured for him to take a seat across from them. Lestrade sat but seemed too agitated to stay still.

"My daughter has been kidnapped," he said, his brow deepening with worry. John sat forward instantly in shock.

"That's terrible! Has there been a ransom? Do you have any leads?" he asked quickly, his eyes filling with sympathy. Sherlock seemed unfazed except for a small quirk of his eyebrow.

"I was unaware that you had a child, Lestrade," he mused quite calmly. Watson gave him a warning look, but he ignored it.

"Yes," Lestrade said shortly, and then stood, no longer able to control himself.

"When I got home from work early this morning after a stake out I found the door ajar, lock smashed, and the house destroyed. I searched everywhere for Rose, even asked the neighbors if they had seen her. But she's gone and you're the only person I know that can find her and bring her back," Lestrade explained in a rush, pacing up and down the hall. Holmes opened his mouth to speak, the tiny glint in his eyes the tell-tale hint of a snide remark, but Watson cut him off.

"We'll take care of it," John soothed the panicked inspector. Sherlock threw his companion a small glare. He hated to be told what to do. The beauty of being a private consultant detective, as he often told the doctor, was that he got to pick and choose his clients, and no one else could for him. John met his glare with a steely gaze and with a sigh the detective backed down. He was far too curious not to take the case anyways.

"We should inspect the scene of the crime, come Watson," Holmes said, leaping to his feet in one fluid movement. He had pulled on his coat by the time Watson had gotten to his feet and was at the door when he got on his coat. Lestrade was happy enough to oblige.

"I have a carriage waiting outside. We can go straight there," He agreed, hurrying down the stairs after them. After a short ride they arrived at the inspector's house. Sherlock looked around the front entrance of the yard, studying the ground and plants along the path before slowly making his way up to the doorway. He was in his element now and Watson and Lestrade both knew well not to disturb him. Holmes studied the smashed lock on the front door and then looked around the porch. With a smug smile he nodded to himself and headed inside. Watson and Lestrade shared a look and then followed inside.

The house really was a mess. Things had been shoved around and knocked over in a clear struggle. Tables were knocked over and things scattered around the floor with a lot of broken glass. Watson gasped and took in the destruction.

"This was some struggle…" he mumbled to himself as he looked around the room.

"Certainly looks that way doesn't it," Holmes mused as he walked past Watson and made his way into what must have been the daughter's room. The door was half hanging off of its hinge, part of it smashed where someone had kicked the door opened. Holmes took a quick glance at it and hopped nimbly over a fallen table. The faint crunch of shattered glass seemed to echo through the silent house as the detective took in the room. Watson looked around and felt his heart go out to the inspector. To return home and see this must have been truly heartbreaking. Lestrade lingered in the broken doorway, repressing the desire to groan.

"Holmes?" Watson questioned, hoping for the detective to give some kind of statement on the girl's safety while eyeing a stain of blood on the floor.

"There's something I don't quite understand," Holmes said after a moment of looking around. Both men waited for him to continue; amazed he would admit such a thing.

"This is the bedroom of a young woman, not a child," he observed.

"My daughter is twenty years old," Lestrade replied with a confused expression. Both the doctor and the detective looked at him then.

"Egads, man, how _do_ you look so young?" Holmes questioned in his typical sarcastic nature.

"Holmes." Watson shot him a warning look to match his warning tone. Holmes shrugged and returned to his investigation unaffected. Lestrade looked ready to hit him. John put a hand on the inspector's shoulder to calm him.

"I have all I need to know then, thank you," Holmes stated as he hoped back out of the room. Watson followed with a tiny roll of his eyes and a growing desire to hit the detective just as much as Lestrade wanted to.

"A parting query, however," Sherlock added as he glanced over his shoulder at the inspector. "Just how old are you Lestrade?"

Watson shut the front door behind him with a sharp snap to block whatever response Lestrade might have and glared at Sherlock.

"Entirely uncalled for."

"Tell me you aren't curious too, Watson."

"Does it matter?"

"Well with a daughter of over twenty years of age that would put him—"Holmes was interrupted by Watson opening the door to the carriage waiting by the curb.

"In, Holmes." The detective obliged and got in the carriage followed by the doctor. Together the two rode in silence back towards Baker Street.

"Do you think she's alive?" John finally asked, breaking the silence between them.

"Certainly," Holmes answered.

"Can you find her?" Watson knew better than to ask but his concern for their mutual friend made him.

Sherlock gave an insulted sniff, "But of course." He turned to look out the window then.

"It would seem, however, that we have another case waiting for us first," he said as they approached 221B and both saw a woman knocking on the door. Holmes hopped out of the carriage just as Lily opened the door.

"Please come inside, madam, I shall be with you in a moment," Holmes said and brushed past both girls into the house and up the stairs. Watson sighed and paid the driver before approaching the girls. He tipped his hat and bowed his head slightly to the young woman draped in black. Even his meager detecting skills could tell him she was a widow. Young, and recent to her new status. She turned to him and bowed her head delicately.

"I'm Doctor Watson. I apologize for my colleague. That was Sherlock Holmes. Do come in," he offered and held the door for her. She smiled and stepped inside as Lily moved out of the way. She took the doctor's coat and hat and their guest's outer shall. The widow kept her hat and veil on however, the black meshing perfectly with her black hair twisted into a bun at the nap of her neck. Beneath the wispy material were porcelain white skin and a pair of forest green eyes.

"My name is Ruth Harrington…I was hoping the detective could help me," the woman spoke gently in a small and fragile voice. John marveled at how delicate a creature the young woman was and wondered if she could survive a meeting with his brash housemate. He offered her his arm, concerned that even a trip up the stairs might do this girl more damage. She placed a gloved hand on his arm and together the two ascended the stairs. Watson could hear Holmes pacing restlessly inside the study, feigning patience. When they entered the room, however, he was seated in his chair as if he had been waiting in that spot all along.

"Do sit down Miss…." Holmes gestured to the empty chair that was across the small coffee table from his and Watson's seats.

"Mrs. Ruth Harrington," she corrected him.

"Formerly," he notes. John "accidentally" stepped on the detective's foot as he took his seat. Sherlock made a muffled yelp but swallowed it down into a fake cough and masked his pain with an equally false smile.

"What can we do for you?" he asked.

"I've been robbed, Mr. Holmes, and I was hoping you might solve the case for me," Mrs. Harrington explained.

"What was stolen?" Holmes asked, hardly interested.

"A small safe that contained all of my most important documents…and those of my late husband's," she replied.

Holmes leaned forward. "What kind of documents?"

"Birth certificates, the mortgage on our house, and…." Mrs. Harrington trailed off.

"And?"

"My husband was a member of the military, Mr. Holmes. There were many secrets he kept that not even I was aware of. All I know is that he made me swear never to lose those papers as long as he was gone at sea." She rested her gaze on Sherlock's and the two stared at each other for a moment, as if sizing the other up.

"I'll take it," he replied after a moment, hopping out of his seat.

"I've written my address down here. Perhaps you could come by tomorrow?" She held out the slip of paper and Watson took it.

"We'll be there," Holmes agreed, already at work with something at his chemistry set.

"Thank you for your time," she said with a small nod of her head to the doctor.

"Do you need me to call a carriage for you?" Watson asked, getting to his feet.

"No, I will be fine. Thank you, doctor." She turned for the door.

"Good day gentlemen." With that she was gone. Watson turned to look at Holmes with a frown.

"There was no reason to be rude," he scolded.

"I wasn't being rude," Holmes replied, not looking up from his work.

"Yes you were." John frowned.

"_You_ were the one who stepped on _my_ foot," Holmes retorted.

"Because _you_ insulted that poor young woman!"

"I merely stated a fact. She said she was Mrs. Ruth Harrington and assuming that she is using her husband's last name, I simply pointed out that as her husband is dead she is now the formerly Mrs. Harrington."

"Have you no sense of decorum?" Watson demanded.

"Meaning do I have any pity. You know the answer to that, doctor. No," Holmes replied curtly. Watson snorted and snatched up his newspaper, ripping it open in a huff. Both men continued their stubborn silence for the rest of the evening.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: Thanks again to all the favorites and followings on my story! I appreciate it a lot guys! Well let's continue with the flashback! Holmes has lots of work to do!

Chapter Eight

"It would seem you spoke too soon yesterday," Watson pointed out as he and Holmes sat eating breakfast together the next morning. More correctly stated Watson ate breakfast; Holmes sat with a cup of tea in front of him but spent most of his time scanning the newspaper.

"Pardon?" Holmes asked, not looking up from his study.

"You said there was nothing out there of interest for you. Now you have not one but two simultaneous cases," John pointed out.

"So it would seem," Holmes replied nonchalantly.

"Are you sure you should be taking both on at the same time?" Watson asked looking over the detective. "After all…Lestrade's daughter…"

"Is alive I am certain. After we stop by Mrs. Harrington's home this morning we will continue on her case. It shouldn't take too long to find Miss Lestrade." Holmes turned the page of the newspaper without pausing to take a breath. The doctor chuckled faintly and finished his breakfast quickly, draining the last of the tea from his cup. As if waiting for this to be a cue, Sherlock leapt out of his seat and began pulling on his coat and hat. Watson followed in suit and soon the two were out the door, Lily waving goodbye to them as they went.

"Be careful!" she called after them.

"I hardly think such a warning is necessary for us," Holmes mused, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I think given the trouble we get into from day to day it is doubly necessary for us." Watson chuckled and fell in step with his companion. Holmes sniffed and either had nothing to say or chose not to respond.

Ruth Harrington's home was small but cozy, tucked into a nicer area of town where every little house seemed to nestle into the next one and the sound of children laughing could be heard and smoke rose from chimneys in a welcoming fashion.

"A family life. How ghastly," Holmes stated.

"Some enjoy it," Watson pointed out.

"Some also enjoy killing. That doesn't make it any better now does it?"

"And I suppose you put death and a quiet home life on the same level."

"Most definitely."

Their conversation was cut short by their arrival to the front door. After a sharp knock the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Harrington much in the same clothing that she had worn the day before. The only difference being that this time she did not have on a hat and veil. Her skin still appeared alabaster against the darkness of her gown and the vividness of the color of her eyes.

"I'm so glad you could come, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," she said as she held the door open for them. They both stepped inside, taking in their surroundings in their own way. Sherlock scanned every nook and cranny of every visible space, categorizing and storing it in his mind for later. John took in some things either for curiosity's sake or for the sake of being polite.

"Your house is very nice," he complimented. In truth her house was very simple. There were little decorations on the walls, tables, mantles, and the furniture seemed rather minimal. It was unbelievably clean however, as if no one lived there at all.

"Thank you," Mrs. Harrington said with a small smile.

"Where was your safe kept?" Holmes asked, going straight to business.

"The bedroom. Please follow me." She led them down a tight hall to a set of doors and opened the one at the very end for them. Holmes went to work instantly and Watson hung back to stay beside the young widow.

"How long has your husband been gone, if you don't mind my asking?" he asked.

"I found out a few weeks ago. He was at sea when it happened…" she trailed off, looking over the room. In part she watched Sherlock as he worked, and in part she saw something entirely in her mind. John watched her silently; concerned for this fragile woman abandoned and alone in this house with the memories of her lost loved one.

Over to one side of the room, Holmes ran a finger over the surface of a small bureau and then studied the invisible dust on his fingertip. He sniffed it and then looked around.

"I believe, madam, you have withheld information from me," he stated, turning his dark gaze upon her.

"I don't understand," Mrs. Harrington replied.

"Something else was stolen from you, was it not?"

"Pardon?"

"Some of your jewels were stolen as well as the information from the safe you kept stored under your bed."

"Oh…yes…well I was more concerned with getting the documents back."

"Yes but the fact that jewels were taken as well tells me a great deal. You must never leave anything out!" Holmes was somewhere between scolding and indignant.

"Holmes." If Watson were to win a pound every time he had to warn the detective, he'd never have to take a patient on again.

"I think I have gathered all the information I need here," Holmes huffed and stalked back towards the front door.

"I apologize. I assure you he is doing all he can to return your husband's documents," Watson reassured Mrs. Harrington as the figure of Sherlock retreated down the hall.

"Of course….I apologize for not telling you everything…" Mrs. Harrington trailed off, looking concerned.

"Quite alright." He smiled. "We will be in touch soon." With that he bowed his head to her and followed Sherlock out in time to see Holmes climb into a carriage. John managed to get in before the driver nudged the horses into movement.

"Care to share?"

"The thief was a woman. I'm still working on the rest," Holmes replied.

"A woman? Are you sure?" Watson asked in surprise.

"Pardon me, have we met before?" was Holmes's sarcastic response. John rolled his eyes.

"Anyways, now we are off to see into Lestrade's case," Sherlock continued on as if John hadn't spoken.

"Where are we going?"

"We're looking for a man. Big, I'd say about six foot. Muscular. A hired help meant for physical labor. Someone familiar with the crime world and Lestrade's police work," Holmes answered.

"Factory worker?" Watson guessed.

"Fisherman, in fact," Holmes corrected.

"To the docks, then," Watson replied.

"To the docks," Holmes agreed.


End file.
